


Ghostly Sound of Silence

by DoctorTrekLock



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gas Station Robbery, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Leap fic, Moderate depictions of violence, POV Al, Panic Attacks, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21842908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorTrekLock/pseuds/DoctorTrekLock
Summary: Originally, it had been a pretty simple scene: Billy enters the gas station, loiters for a couple minutes, and heads to the register. Angela moves to open the register, Billy gets twitchy, and Angela gets shot. George’s the only witness, testifies about what happens, and Billy gets locked up.Ideally, it would have been even simpler: Billy enters the gas station, George has a heart-to-heart with the kid (in the way only Sam could, really), and Billy leaves without pulling his gun and with Angela none the wiser.Actually, it went much worse.
Relationships: Sam Beckett & Al Calavicci
Comments: 14
Kudos: 34
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Ghostly Sound of Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lapsedpacifist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsedpacifist/gifts).



> Hey! Hope you enjoyed Yuletide, LapsedPacifist! And I'm hoping you enjoy this fic. ^.^
> 
> I was going to ship them, honest I was. But then they just... *put upon sigh* Sorry, dear. Hope you still like it!
> 
> The title is from "Billy's Got a Gun" by Def Leppard, a song chosen after the fic was completed, and which is a complete coincidence, lol.
> 
> I did have a lovely beta, who shall, for the moment, remain nameless. (EDIT: ImprobableDreams900)
> 
> Happy Yuletide and Merry December!!!

By the time Gooshie and Ziggy finally got the imaging chamber calibrated properly, Sam had already been in the guise of George Spielman for an hour and a half.

“What am I doing here?” Sam hissed as he shuffled down the dimly lit sidewalk, one hand in his pocket for warmth, the other gripping the handle of his cane.

“You’re preventing a robbery,” Al informed him, giving Sam the usual once over. George Spielman had the sort of salt-and-pepper distinguished look that he hoped to have one day, though Al knew sadly that he didn’t have the square-jawed bone structure to carry off the look quite so well. He mentally shook his head in sorrow and kept rattling off the facts for Sam. “Or at least Ziggy thinks so,” he continued. “78% chance you’re here to stop Angela Brown from getting killed when Billy Doyle robs the gas station on 7th and Lexington at 10:23 pm on September 18, 1983.”

“When’s that?”

Al looked down at the wildly blinking handlink to confirm. “In about ten minutes.”

Sam groaned. “Great. How am I supposed to do that? Call the cops?”

“Oh, no,” Al told him quickly. “You can’t get the police involved. See, Billy robs the gas station, accidentally shoots Angela, and goes to jail for forty-five years for murder two, leaving his wife and infant daughter all alone. She ends up losing her job because she’s so broken up about it, and then the landlord kicks them out because she can’t pay rent. And _then_ , after all that, she catches a fatal case of pneumonia and the kid ends up on the street.”

“So I’m here to save both of them,” Sam clarified.

“Ziggy thinks so,” Al confirmed. “48% you’re here for Billy, 61% for Angela, and 78% for both.”

“At least it should be quick,” Sam sighed, returning to his slow trek toward the gas station on the corner up ahead.

In retrospect, Al wished Sam hadn’t been quite so right.

\--

Originally, it had been a pretty simple scene: Billy enters the gas station, loiters for a couple minutes, and heads to the register. Angela moves to open the register, Billy gets twitchy, and Angela gets shot. George’s the only witness, testifies about what happens, and Billy gets locked up.

Ideally, it would have been even simpler: Billy enters the gas station, George has a heart-to-heart with the kid (in the way only Sam could, really), and Billy leaves without pulling his gun and with Angela none the wiser.

Actually, it went much worse.

\--

By the time Sam stumbled through the advertising-plastered glass doors of the gas station – Al strolling leisurely behind him, hands in the pockets of his silver jacket and handlink stowed – Billy was aimlessly wandering down the florescent-lit aisles. At the front of the store to their left, Angela was leaning over the counter, contemplating a crossword and looking extremely bored. To Al’s eyes, all he saw was a girl of about seventeen who sure didn’t deserve to die today.

As the bell over the door clanged with Sam’s arrival, she glanced up disinterestedly before returning to her newspaper crossword, biting the end of her pen in concentration.

“How much time do I have?” Sam muttered, leaning against the wall next to the door for a moment to catch his breath. Apparently being old took it out of you.

Al fished out the handlink and squinted at it. “Two minutes.” He returned it unceremoniously to his jacket pocket.

“Great,” Sam sighed. He pushed himself off the wall and wobbled towards the center of the store, heading for a small chewing gum display near the counter that would place him between Angela and Billy. He gave Angela a friendly nod when she glanced at him, but Sam was apparently much less interesting than 27-across.

Billy’s head was visible over the top of the shelving, and as they passed the aisle he was in, Al could see he was fidgeting with something in his coat pocket. By the time Sam had reached the display, Billy’s meandering had taken on a distinctly purposeful stride, leading him ever so surely towards the register.

“He’s almost here, Sam,” Al told him, keeping an eye on the man.

Sam nodded absently and pretended to compare two flavors of Wrigley’s, though Al knew Sam was listening for the shuffle of Billy’s sneakers on the linoleum just as much as Al was.

Sam was careful not to turn, but Al could see Billy stop short when he reached the end of the aisle and caught sight of the man.

“C’mon,” Al coaxed. “You don’t want to do this. Not today.”

As if in response to Al’s words, Billy darted a glance to the doors before muttering something to himself and squaring his shoulders. Al managed to catch “Just an old man,” before Billy was squaring up to the register and pulling the handgun out of his pocket.

Angela lazily glanced up at the movement, then started, letting out a little “eep!”, her crossword forgotten.

Al could hear a quiet huff of frustration from Sam. He hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to Billy before the robbery had kicked off, and that greatly reduced their chances of ending this without violence.

Billy pointed the gun at Angela, keeping an eye on Sam as well. “Empty the register,” he said, his voice shaking as the end of the gun wavered.

 _Jesus_. Al hadn’t realized, but this man wasn’t much of a man at all, more of an overgrown boy, 22 years of age not making much difference when you were holding up your first gas station.

“O—okay,” Angela agreed quickly. The top of the register was just peeking up over a couple cardboard displays on the counter, about five or six feet down from where Angela had been loitering. She started moving toward the register slowly, her hands up and her feet sliding incrementally across the floor. She didn’t take her eyes off Billy.

“Now, kid,” Sam said, holding a hand up soothingly and taking a small step forward, leaning on his cane with the other. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

Billy started, as if he’d forgotten Sam was there. “Shut up, old man,” he snapped. And he was trying to sound confident, but Al could hear the undercurrent of fear. He was well acquainted with scared young men with guns.

“Easy now, Sam,” Al urged. “Don’t spook him.”

“Everything’s going to be alright,” Sam promised. “All you have to do is put the gun down.”

“What—what do you know?” the kid asked defiantly, now training the trembling gun in Sam’s direction.

“Think of your family,” Sam said, his voice smooth and gentle but impassioned. “Your parents. Do you have a wife? A kid?”

“Don’t you think I _am_ thinking about my wife?” Billy’s voice was shrill. His knuckles were white around the grip of the gun.

“Sam,” Al warned from his spot at Sam’s elbow.

“I just don’t think she’d want you to do this, to throw away your life like this,” Sam tried.

“Don’t you tell me what she wants!”

And that was the moment everything went to hell.

Angela hit the key on the register to open the drawer, the bell snapping the rising tension with a loud _ding_. Billy flinched, his finger tightening on the trigger, the barrel of the gun still pointed at Sam.

Before he even realized he was moving, Al had instinctively thrown out his arm to push Sam behind him, stepping into the path of the bullet. He had been a soldier once, and he still remembered how to save a life at the cost of his own.

The gunshot echoed loudly in the gas station. Angela screamed.

Al braced himself for the solid thump of a bullet and the accompanying burst of pain he knew was coming.

But it never came. Instead, he heard the clatter of Sam’s cane falling to the ground.

Cold horror flooded through him. He had been too late.

He spun and there, on the ground behind him, lay Sam, red already beginning to seep across pale linoleum tiles.

The soft “no” was torn from his lips.

He dropped to the tile, ignoring the pain radiating through his knees from the impact, and impatiently pushed up the holographic sleeves of his jacket as he gave Sam’s wound a once-over. Luckily, the bullet hole was high on Sam’s left shoulder. It shouldn’t be fatal if treated quickly. He’d seen similar wounds in the war, though those men hadn’t been nearly so lucky.

“C’mon, Sam,” he muttered frantically. “Sam, c’mon, you’ll be fine, you’re fine, c’mon, look at me—” He leaned over his friend and pressed his palms to Sam’s wound, trying to apply pressure to staunch the bleeding.

But instead of feeling the unpleasant solidity of muscle and bone covered in warm blood, Al felt nothing under his hand. Instead, he pitched forward slightly at the _lack_ of resistance, his hand instead falling flat against the cool, smooth, concrete floor of the imaging chamber.

Why… _Oh_.

_Oh._

All at once, it came rushing back. Al felt his stomach fall in horror and he lurched backwards, away from the bleeding body of George Spielman which housed his best friend.

Al stared blankly at Sam. If he’d actually been there, in that gas station in 1983, he could put pressure on the wound, check Sam’s pulse, call for a doctor. Here, in the imaging chamber decades away, he could do nothing but watch.

Angela was babbling from her vantage point behind the counter. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she repeated, her voice rising in register with each repetition.

Billy was staring, wide-eyed, as if he couldn’t believe what had happened, the gun tumbling from his hand. It hit the ground with a loud clatter, but luckily didn’t go off again.

The sound of the gun hitting the linoleum seemed to snap Billy out of it, though, and he moved into action, darting for the door, his feet slapping against the linoleum. The merry tinkling of the bell only served to punctuate the macabre scene, and the door slammed closed behind him with an ominous finality.

Sam groaned and shifted. “Where’s Al?” he slurred. “Al?”

Al leaned forward so Sam could see him. “Right here, Sam.” He attempted a reassuring smile. This, at least, was something he could do.

“I’m calling 911!” Angela exclaimed, loud and high-pitched.

“Good girl,” Al told her, then refocused on Sam. “Hey, c’mon.” Sam’s attention had wandered, so Al snapped his fingers a couple times in Sam’s face before he focused in on him. He ignored the puddle of red on the grimy floor. “C’mon, Sam. Good, good. Keep your eyes on me.”

“Okay,” Sam croaked.

“Good,” Al said firmly. “Now you’ve got to get Angela over here; you’re losing blood, Sam.”

“H—” Sam coughed. “Help!” he wheezed. “Help!”

“Oh!” Angela exclaimed. Al lifted his eyes from Sam’s to see her hurrying over from behind the counter. She dropped to her knees next to Sam, but didn’t seem to have any idea what to do. “Um!”

“Have her put pressure on the wound,” Al ordered.

“Pressure,” Sam gasped.

Angela nodded frantically before scrambling back to her feet and grabbing a sweatshirt from a nearby rack. Al caught a glimpse of an outline of a state – might have been Delaware, might have been Idaho, but seeing as they were in _neither_ it looked a little out of place – before it was balled up and pressed firmly against Sam’s bullet wound. Angela slumped to the floor next to him and kept hold of it.

“It’s okay,” she told Sam, and Al had to admire her for keeping her voice so level, even when her hands were shaking. “It’s going to be okay. I called 911 and there’s an ambulance on the way.”

“She’s right, Sam,” Al told him. “You’re just fine.”

It seemed like forever, but finally a flicker of light from outside the window caught Al’s attention, and he looked up to see an ambulance pull up in front of the gas station, a police car close behind. Sam was going to be alright.

\--

As soon as a semi-conscious Sam had been wheeled into the back of the ambulance, Al ended the projection with the click of a button on the handlink. The gas station flickered out, leaving Al standing alone in a large, empty room.

It was odd. He could still feel Sam’s blood sticky on his hands, even though it had been years since he’d tried to hold a man’s blood in his body by sheer force of will. And he’d never done it to Sam.

The gunshot rang through his memory and he flinched at the noise.

His hands were shaking. He must have dropped the handlink. His hands were shaking, but there was no blood on them, even though he could feel it.

The room slid back and forth, the horizon line tipping to and fro, and Al shook his head. It felt like he was swimming through molasses, and it made the room tilt dangerously, so he crumpled to the ground instead.

It wasn’t until the white walls of the imaging chamber were grey and hazy on the edges, that he realized he was breathing too quickly.

He held his breath for a moment before gasping and repeating, willing his breath to even out. Focusing on his breathing so he wouldn’t have to focus on—

Focusing on his breathing.

It was several minutes before Al could breathe deeply and evenly again. The room was steady, and his hands felt clean.

Even so, Al knew that as soon as he left the imaging chamber Gooshie and Ziggy would be asking him how it had gone. If Sam had stopped the robbery. If Angela was okay.

In a moment, Al would be able to answer their questions. In a moment, he’d be able to forget the way Sam had wheezed around a bullet wound. In a moment.

In a moment.

\--

By the time Al stepped back into the imaging chamber the next morning, Sam was out of surgery and recovering nicely, according to the gossip at the nurse’s station. Well of course he was; Al had known he was going to be fine.

He wasn’t quite up to whistling as he strolled down the short hall to Sam’s room, but he did manage a relaxed saunter. Sam’s room was a surprisingly not-terrible shade of sea foam green; Al wrinkled his nose at the color before slouching in the doorframe and taking in the bed’s occupant.

“Sam,” he greeted, hoping he was striking his usual nonchalance.

“Al,” Sam groaned, spotting him. He tried to sit up, wincing as he pulled at his stitches, and Al found himself three steps into the room before he stopped himself. It wasn’t like he could do anything to help Sam.

“Stop that,” he compromised. “You’ll tear your stitches and George won’t thank you for it.”

“Speaking of,” Sam prefaced. “What happened? Is Angela okay? And Billy?”

Al felt a surge of exasperation for the man who would take a bullet and then ask about the health and well-being of everyone else. He quickly hid the feeling with a cough.

“Well,” he started, looking down at the handlink, “Angela’s fine. She’s going to Berkeley this fall and she’ll major in psychology with a minor in criminal justice. After bouncing between hospitals and prisons, she’ll end up a hostage negotiator with the FBI and save a whole heckuva lot of lives.

“Billy’s on his way to jail as we speak. The police picked him up last night, based on Angela’s description. He’ll serve three years for attempted burglary and be out in time for his daughter’s first day of kindergarten. He takes a couple classes in prison, goes straight, and ends up being a small-time accountant.

“George, in case you’re curious,” Al continued, trying and not quite succeeding to maintain his usual chipper tone, “never quite recovers from the bullet and loses some range of motion in his left arm, but there’re no other complications, he’s lauded as a local hero, and he dies in his sleep in twelve years, happy as a clam.”

He lowered the handlink, but couldn’t quite make himself meet Sam’s eyes.

“And you?” Sam asked quietly.

“Me?” Al scoffed. “I’m fine, Sam. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well, I was wondering where you were this morning,” Sam said lightly, ignoring Al’s response, which both of them knew wasn’t quite up to his usual standards of obfuscation.

Al felt a pang of guilt at leaving Sam alone for so long, but reminded himself that Sam had been in _surgery_ , so it’s not like he would have been good company anyway. “I had things to do,” Al told him. “Spending time with Tina,” he continued, leaving off the hour he had also spent with Beeks. “Chatting with Ziggy. Trying to find out why you haven’t leaped yet.”

“What did you guys come up with?” Sam asked curiously. “I mean, I saved Angela, right? That’s what the leap was for.”

“Ziggy’s got a theory,” Al told him, eagerly latching onto a safer topic. “Since George got shot this time around—” Okay, maybe not a safer topic “—you had to make sure he was okay too. Ziggy claims the calculations say George would probably have died on that operating table if he’d actually been, y’know, _George_.”

“So I saved Angela and Billy _and_ George,” Sam clarified.

“Seems like,” Al told him. “That good enough for you?”

“I think it’ll have to be,” Sam joked. “Not like I’m going to get another shot at this one.”

“Good riddance,” Al muttered.

Although apparently he didn’t mutter it quietly enough, because Sam hesitated, then began picking at a spot on the blanket over him.

“Y’know, Al,” he started, and Al already knew where this was going.

“It’s fine, Sam,” he cut him off. “Three for you, none for me. I’m a hologram; it’s not like I didn’t know the score when I started playing.”

“But you did, Al,” Sam told him. “You did save me. If you hadn’t stepped in front of me, that bullet would have hit me here.” He gestured toward the center of his chest, where his heart was. Al went cold at the thought. “But you did step in front of me, and I moved, and instead it went here.” His finger traced across the scrubs he was wearing to rest on the thick layer of white bandages across his shoulder. “And I lived,” he finished quietly. “So thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Al agreed around a lump in his throat. “You can leap now, you know.”

As if waiting for his permission, familiar blue light swallowed Sam, and Al thanked his lucky stars that this was over. He was very happy to be leaving George Spielman and 1983 behind for good.


End file.
